Inferno
by etudeoftheartist
Summary: One-shot. "I'll put out my fire any day, if it means staying with you." Clove has doubts about their relationship, but Cato thinks otherwise. AU, where the fiery duo and Everlark both survive the Games.


Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins and not me.

Soundtrack: "Molt" Bear/face ft. Mothica, "White Suburban" Skylar Grey, "Eyes on Fire" Blue Foundation, "Smother" Daughter.

This one-shot came to life because of my need for Clato, something more between these two to exist, and a secretly softie Cato (especially when he gets lessons from Peeta!). Also, Alexander Ludwig and Isabelle Fuhrman are the cutest things ever.

* * *

He knows something is wrong the minute he walks through the bedroom door.

Clove is sitting curled up on the bed, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, wearing just one of Cato's old baseball jerseys. She's in her "defense position," which is already a bad sign.

But what scares him the most is the hollowness in her gaze, that emptiness as she stares straight past him, through him, but not at him. He squints, trying to catch a glimpse of that familiar fire and spark, but there's no such luck.

At first, he thinks that she's having one of her flashbacks, a nightmare about their time in the arena. "Is it about the Games again?" he asks, but she wordlessly shakes her heads.

Of course, he could have guessed that on his own; she's not screaming, thrashing, or breaking objects.

He curses himself for not being able to understand woman, and then curses woman for being so damn hard to read.

So then, tries to remember the things that Lover Boy taught him about dealing with a girlfriend in times of trouble. About being a good, kind, supportive, non-volatile boyfriend. Hold her hand. Smile. Act casual. Ask her what's wrong. Give her a hug. Most importantly, look into her eyes.

(He's having trouble with that last one, with her long, bare legs giving him a ready distraction for his eyes.)

But before he can come up with some sort of gameplan, she speaks, in a dull, dead, voice.

"We're not gonna last." He freezes.

 _Act casual, act casual, act casual_ …

Cato swallows, trying to slow his accelerating heart rate. "What did you say, baby?"

She doesn't acknowledge his pet name with a dagger-shooting glare or a snort, and he _knows_ that shit is about to go down.

Clove takes a shaky breath, and it breaks Cato's heart to see it. "We're not gonna make it, Cato. Our relationship isn't gonna work."

At her words, he feels lightheaded, and has to sit down on the bed. Dizzily, he drags his hand down the side of his face, sighing loudly.

They have been dating, as in, _actual_ dating and official "boyfriend-girlfriend" for only a few months. It had taken years for them to finally admit their feelings, try a relationship, and have intensely enjoyable make-out sessions. _Years._

Cato has never had a serious relationship before in his entire freaking life-unless you count delirious one night stands and what not. Clove is his first, and he is hoping, his last. And already, they have to go through this?

Silently, Cato swears at the gods of relationships.

Tentatively, he wraps his arm around Clove, ignoring the hurt when she doesn't lean into his embrace, and gives her a light squeeze. "Why?" he asks, trying to keep his voice as gentle and calm as possible so that he doesn't fuck up and say something completely stupid and Cato-esque. "You can tell me."

"I...I ran into Gale today."

Cato ignores the jealousy that courses through his stomach, at the thought of Clove chatting with another guy. "And what did he say?" he questions cautiously.

She's silent. "Clove?"

"He told me that we're not gonna last." She's speaking in clipped sentences, and he swears, he gonna break Hawthorne's face for scaring his girlfriend like this and threatening his almost-three-month-damn-you-gale actual relationship.

"And why," Cato growls, before clearing his throat and speaking in a more civil tone, "would he say that?"

"Because we're two fires, Cato," she whispers, eyes glassing over. "We're just like Gale and Katniss. Two angry people, filled with rage, passion, and nothing else. We'll spin out of control, just like they did, because we can't control ourselves."

He's at a loss for words, and he feels so helpless, that all he can do is hold her and nod in understanding.

His stomach clenches, partially from the pain of seeing her so weak, so vulnerable, so defenseless, but also from how _beautiful_ she looks, with her messy bed hair, the splash of freckles across her cheeks and slender nose, and the ever present ferocity of her hazel eyes.

They are fire, yes. But they are so much more. And he knows, that their love is something worth fighting for.

"Yeah," he says. "Gale's right."

"Wha...what?"

Cato doesn't know what he's saying, but he shuts out that nagging voice in his head that _you-suck-you're-a-crappy-boyfriend_ and keeps going. "Hawthorne's right. We are fire. We are angry, mean, hateful. Hell, we can be pretty shitty people at times."

"But we're different from Hawthorne and Everdeen. They didn't try to make a relationship work, because they couldn't give themselves up. They just _couldn't_. Both of them needed their fire, their spark, their anger to function. I mean, is it even physically possible to have a happy, smiley, peaceful Katniss Everdeen?"

Clove snorts. "Sounds more like Madge to me."

He laughs, and takes her hand in his, leaning in. "But our love is worth all the fights, all the drama, and all the flames, because we're willing to _change_ for each other. Hell, I'll put out my fire any day, if it means staying with you."

She gives a shaky laugh, and before Cato can even react or speak, she throws her arms around his neck and hugs him.

He can almost hear Lover Boy applauding him in his head. " _Well done, Cato, well done. You're not such a bad boyfriend after all."_

Clove presses a kiss to the side of his face. "Don't put out your fire. Ever. It's what makes you _you_."

Cato grins, and takes this moment to look her over, messy hair, in a ragged sports shirt, and looking up at him.

Now that this crisis is over, he wants nothing more than to pin her against the bed and kiss her senseless. Preferably without clothing.

"So you're calling me hot, eh?"

Her eyes widen in shock, at his lack of respect for her confession, before narrowing into a smoldering glare.

He gives her a "I'm hot and you know it" smirk. Clove's scowl deepens, and Cato swears, he's never seen anyone or anything more enticing in his life. Leaning forward, he chuckles arily, breath fanning against her face.

"I like it when you wear my shirts," he murmurs, thumb lazily brushing her cheek.

She tries to glare at him even more, but an all-too-telling blush spreads across her face. He kisses her collarbone, peppering a soft string of kisses up her neck, across her jawbone, and on her nose. He soaks up how she flushes even darker shades of fiery red, how her scowl softens just ever so slightly, with each kiss.

"I love yo—" he begins.

"Shut up and kiss me."

He accepts, takes this as his opportunity to shift her onto her back, trapping her with his strong arms and crushing her lips with his own. Clove laughs into his mouth, a light, tinkling sound, and her arms snake around his neck.

They burn, quite literally, her agonizingly soft lips searing against his own, his fingers flaring with passion as they trail up the side of her waist, one arm pinning her to the mattress. He grunts as she rolls on top of him, and he pulls away for just a second, enjoying the life, the blaze, that's returned to her eyes, before crashing his lips back into hers.

Within minutes, the baseball jersey lies on the ground, forgotten.

* * *

When it's all over, they lay together, enjoying each other's warmth.

Clove is fast asleep, head tucked into his shoulder. Cato lays awake, unable to sleep, fiery tingles lighting his skin on fire. His chest aches, thinking of fierce smiles, meaningful touches, and soft moans.

In the pale, silvery light of the full moon, he can just barely make out the lines of her face. She's less volatile, less fiery, less angry, less passionate when she sleeps. When she snores, she looks like an average 17-year-old, untroubled and at peace.

Yet he feels a yearning to see the spark in her eyes, the confident smirk, and the all too perfect body of hers. She is the tough survivor who throws knives better than all the guys in District 2, the understanding friend who holds Cato when he weeps, and a force to be reckoned with when she wears a tight-fitting dress with a knowing smile around a handsy, gawking Cato. She is not only fire, but earth, water, wind, and simply _Clove_.

She appreciates his fire, and he appreciates hers. And their relationship is tumultuous, aggressive, confusing at times, but that is what makes them _them_. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

"I love you, kitten," he mutters, arm holding her tight to his chest. She smiles in her sleep, pressing a chaste kiss to his neck.

(It burns, and he savors the sensation.)


End file.
